


Puddifoot's Diagon Dreams

by TwilightToMidnight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, Dreams, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22360078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightToMidnight/pseuds/TwilightToMidnight
Summary: Welcome to Puddifoot's Diagon Dreams. Our services include kidnapping by rakish highwaymen, seduction by a vampire prince in moonlight, ravishment by a dastardly Duke and much, much more...
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 18
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A new story for the new year.

Hermione Granger stared sceptically up at the brightly painted pink façade of _Puddifoot’s Diagon Dreams_ and back down at the gift certificate which had her name inscribed in barely legible cursive. She hesitated at the threshold, leaning over in vain to attempt to see through the black out curtains which covered the expansive windows of the storefront.

“What sort of bookshop is this again; did you say Ginny?” She said with increasing suspicion as a pair of flushed and giggling girls burst out of the shop door, narrowly missing trampling Hermione as they stumbled down the street and out of sight.

Ginny tucked away her wand and grabbed Hermione by the crook of her elbow, thwarting her attempts at retreat. She sent the older woman a cheeky wink, “Oh, just your usual, run of the mill, bookshop.”

“That Madame Puddifoot, of frilly doilies and teacup kittens, happens to own?” Hermione asked incredulously. She couldn’t imagine that flighty, shrill woman of their Hogwarts days owning any book thicker than Witch Weekly’s Summer Bachelor edition, let alone an entire bookshop.

“Angelina says it’s amazing,” Ginny whined, showing a terrifying resemblance to her 3-year-old toddler James when he was denied his third chocolate frog of the day, “Please Hermione! This is the first time I’ve left the house in 4 months that doesn’t involve doing the grocery shopping or taking a teething, screaming infant to St. Mungo’s.”

Ginny rounded on her, forcing the brunette to meet her intent gaze. “What does that certificate say?” She said slowly, as if speaking to a confunded first year.

Hermione’s eyes skimmed the vellum card in her hands. “Redeemable for 6 hours of viewing pleasure.” Her eyes flashed up to Ginny’s. “What does that even mean?”

“Whatever it means, it is 6 hours of husband free, child free, mashed-pea-in-my-hair free, Ginny time.” The red head squealed with glee. “Don’t get me wrong, Merlin knows I love my family to pieces, but Ginny needs mommy time.”

Before she could dig her heels into the cobblestone path, Hermione found herself manoeuvred through the ominously coloured door, into what appeared to be a bright and open reception space. It somewhat resembled her parents’ dental practice waiting room if not for the various round tables scattered about surrounded by several excited witches and the odd, bashful looking wizard.

Beyond the counter sat a beaming receptionist who stood when they entered. “Welcome to Puddifoot’s Diagon Dreams. Do you have a reservation?”

Ginny skirted past Hermione, snatching up her gift voucher and presenting it at the desk before she could have second thoughts. “Yes, we do. Hermione Granger and Ginny Potter for 3 o’clock.”

The receptionist – _Bertha!_ As her name tag exclaimed _–_ continued beaming and Hermione wondered how much maintenance that blindingly white smile needed. “Lovely.”

“Yes, lovely.” Ginny replied, grinning.

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. There wasn’t a book in sight in this strangely sterile space. The only thing which even hinted at there being any sign of the written word in this facility was a door beyond the receptionist’s shoulder which was marked ‘The Reading Room’.

“Have either of you ladies been here before?”

Hermione’s shook her head wearily as she continued to survey the room. Even more than a decade after the end of the 2nd Wizarding war, she had yet to shed the habit of assessing the room for risk.

“Then I’ll ask you to complete this Medical declaration and Indemnity Waiver form. When you’ve completed them, please –”

Hermione’s eyes snapped back to the witch before her. “What waiver?” her gaze swivelled to Ginny who was smilingly reaching for the proffered clipboards like it was a perfectly normal occasion in which she needed to declare her health status and sign a waiver just to enter a bookshop owned by a woman who had never comprehended the phrase “Less is more”.

Ginny steered Hermione to an empty table with a somewhat toothy grin. “This is a PEAIW book club. Didn’t you listen when Angelina was explaining it to you at mum’s Christmas lunch?”

Hermione fought the heat rising in her cheeks as she recalled the evening. She admitted having spent much of it trying her best to avoid Mrs. Weasley’s attempts at setting her up with a newly single Percy who’d dutifully cornered her for over half an hour to discuss reinstating the magical warding around the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts after two first years recently wandered in there and was brought back by some deeply disgruntled centaurs.

She contemplated Ginny’s mish mash of consonants and vowels and wondered how sleep deprived the young mother really was.

Ginny ignored her expression and signed her waiver with a flourish. “PEAIW, as in _Potion Enabled Alice in Wonderland_ book club. It’s huge with the Americans and Madame Puddifoot has been promoting it for ages. She’s about to open a second branch in Hogsmeade!”

Hermione skimmed the waiver and wondered what this supposed bookshop had to do with a muggle tale of a possibly drug addled 10-year-old girl from the 19th century. “Madame Puddifoot, employees and all encumbered legal entities do not hold financial or legal responsibility should the customer suffer seizure, anaphylaxis, cardiac arrest, cerebrovascular events or related magical maladies during or after the experience.”

Ginny twirled her quill in her fingers. “Hermione, you spent a year on the run chased by death eaters and Snatchers and fought in the 2nd Wizarding war, I doubt a little daytime fantasy is going to give you a heart attack.” She gave Hermione a nudge with a rather sharp elbow. “Come on, Granger, don’t you want to see Maclaggen rising naked out of a pool –”

“Merlin NO!”

Several heads swivelled in their direction and Hermione ducked to hide behind Ginny’s laughing form. “What sort of establishment have you brought me to?” She hissed.

“Relax Hermione. It’s a book club! You love those!” Ginny was barely containing her snorts of laughter at this point. “You never know, maybe you’ll get to see Percy in battle armour or Ron…”

It was slowly dawning on Hermione exactly what sort of bookshop this was. She had vaguely heard her own receptionist mention it in passing one late evening while she was bringing Hermione dinner. She hardly paid her any mind, her thoughts having already wondered onto the dilemma of how murtlap essence could be incorporated into her latest version of the calming draught to combat magical mental trauma in war veterans.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Gin. Who knows what they put in these hallucinatory potions. What if this turns into an absolute nightmare? I have no interest in being drugged and…”

Ginny Potter grabbed her face and stared dead into her eyes. “Hermione Granger, you get to pick your fantasy, not let you mind run rampant. It’s just a daydream. No harm will come of it. You don’t even have to tell me what you dreamt about afterwards if you don’t want to.” A quill appeared in her hand. “Just think of it as a nap with a nice dream thrown in. No harm, no foul.”

“Unless I have a cardiac arrest.” Hermione snarked.

Ginny grinned as she signed the waiver. “Unless you have a cardiac arrest.” She affirmed with a grin.

Bertha the receptionist swept up the forms the moment Hermione dropped her quill. “Ladies, congratulations, you are about to embark on your wildest fantasies. Please allow me to lead you to the Reading room.”

Hermione followed behind Ginny and the receptionist, slipping into a room, surprisingly, filled with bookshelves. Each row contained hundreds of brightly coloured spines, each curiously marked with a coloured dot of various hues.

“Welcome!” The receptionist said with a theatrical hush. “In this room, you shall find princes, vampires, marauding pirates…” she shivered dramatically, “Perhaps you wish to be ravished by a highway man to escape your arranged marriage, perhaps you wish to trade your virginity to a dark warlock to save your dying sister…or perhaps, you wish to be seduced on the desk of your CEO.”

Hermione’s left eye twitched as she swore she would curse Ginny into the next century as soon as they were alone. This sounded nothing like a pleasant afternoon’s diversion, instead it sounded like she’d fallen into one of those Harlequin romance novels her mother always denied reading.

Ginny was clapping her hands in glee. She grabbed Hermione and led her into the nearest aisle, plucking titles off the shelves with uncontainable excitement and shoving them into her hands. Reading the synopsis on the backs, Hermione quickly realised these were all about pirates and the wenches of the high seas. She returned them to their shelves while Ginny’s back was turned.

The next aisle contained endless books about what muggles termed BDSM. Hermione turned tail and ran, leaving Ginny nodding enthusiastically at their guide’s explanation. She was seriously considering feigning cardiac arrest when Ginny rounded the corner with a gleeful smile and 3 books tucked under one arm.

“We only have a few hours here; do you honestly need that many?” She sounded anxious, even to her own ears.

Ginny wagged a finger in her face. “Now, now, I’m just short listing. It’s hard to choose between being spanked and doing the spanking.”

Hermione paled. She did not need that image of Harry and Ginny. She’d never be able to look Harry in the eye ever again. She could never attend another Burrow dinner ever again. She could never look at baby Albus and not wonder what had preceded his conception.

“I think I’m going to go.” She made to skirt around Ginny but years of Quidditch and motherhood had honed her reflexes and Hermione found herself caught by the sleeve of her robe and dragged, almost kicking and screaming, into the next aisle.

Ginny huffed. “Hermione. Pick something. I won’t look, alright? Just live a little. If you’re going to waste away in that damned potions lab, at least you give yourself an escape every now and then. Nothing here can harm you.”

Hermione conceded that point to her. Being a potions developer left her little time for relationships. She was in and out of her lab at all hours, brewing obscure concoctions which for some odd reason need to be stirred counter clockwise thrice at the stroke of midnight. It had been what caused her and Ron to “have a break” which started as a month and faded into a tacit agreement that they worked better as friends. Hermione would never forget the look of endless disappointment on Molly’s face when they had told her.

She nervously skimmed the titles. Each was as outrageous as the next. Each more unappealing than the previous.

Ginny sent her a glare, jerking her head towards Bertha who waited for them to complete their selections.

Hermione blindly plucked out a small novel. Its cover showed a swooning woman, her blouse unbuttoned, pressed against a doorframe, a dark haired man clutching her hips. “The Sheikh’s virgin secretary.” She read the title out loud and shot Ginny an incredulous look.

Ginny hummed absentmindedly. “Sounds good.”

“It most certainly does not sound good.” Hermione retorted back. “This rot must be setting feminism back a hundred years.”

Ginny put two books into the hands of their waiting guide and turned back to Hermione. Her expression was quietly sympathetic. “You’re right. If this was happening in reality, it would be total rot and I would absolutely question the power dynamics in this sort of relationship. But, Hermione, you of all people must realise books can be about escape and entertainment. What you find in fiction does not have to mirror reality. That’s why you read; that’s why you love those muggle movies. You don’t really want a mad dictator to wipe out half the planet’s population but you want to see the heroes defeat him, right?”

Hermione hesitated and grumbled a reluctant agreement. Ginny was right. She shouldn’t take this too seriously. She’d just get this over and done with and go back to pondering how she could source ethically harvested powdered dragon’s horn.

She waited until Ginny had deliberately turned her back and took a few books off the nearest shelf. She picked two with the most benign sounding titles and handed them off to the witch awaiting them.

“Lovely.” She said again.

Hermione’s left eye twitched.

“If you’ll follow me. Right this way, through this door if you please Mrs. Potter, Ms Granger.”

The next room was dimly lit but Hermione could make out what seemed to be dozens of semi private booths. As they passed, she could see several lounging women, their eyes closed, lips smiling. It quite disturbingly reminded Hermione of the opium dens she had seen in historical films.

Ginny nudged her along until they came to two empty booths at the far corner of the large room. She went eagerly as their guide instructed her to lie on the reclining chaise and handed her a benign looking cup of tea. Ginny winked at her over the rim of the cup before tipping the contents back like a shot of Firewhiskey.

Hermione looked away, sighing. She climbed onto her similar looking chaise in the booth opposite and awaited her cheerful guide’s instructions.

Seeing her already reclining, the receptionist beamed again. “Lovely.” She watched as Bertha set her two books into an ornate looking case, pushing the glass lid shut with an ominous click.

Hermione accepted the cup of tea she was offered and downed it obediently. She briefly tasted a hint of rose thorn and peppermint.

It took only seconds before she became drowsy. Her head began to loll on her shoulders and as her vision began to fade with the fatigue, Hermione briefly noted the black dots on the spines of both her books.

It felt like she only dozed for a second but when she next opened her eyes, Hermione found herself in a familiar building. The colour scheme was similar to her office, more stylised certainly, but still carrying the accents of mahogany and black veined marble.

With a jolt, she realised she was moving, her body not quite her own. The click of her own shoes echoed in her ears and the door handle beneath her hand, unbelievably cool. The door before her swung open and she stepped in, blinded in the most theatrical manner, by the backlighting which showed her the shadow of a man.

Hermione’s mouth ran dry in an instant.

“Hello, Granger.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his cruel lips. “Come in. Close the door.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little glimpse at the other side of the story

Draco Malfoy was not exactly sure when he developed this strange ability. It seemed to have manifested sometime during the second wizarding war. In a moment of extreme stress, his consciousness decided to be exactly that, constantly conscious. While his restless body slept at Malfoy manor, haunted perpetually by the comings and goings of Voldemort and his dark forces, his consciousness walked like a sentient ghost, through the rooms, the attics and the dungeons.

Every night, he rose without his body, roaming the halls of his childhood home and eventually, learning to make the journey to familiar haunts like Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. He gathered secrets like nuggets of gold, hoarding them away until one could be brought out to avert disaster or coerce silence.

He learned about the Carrows’ dirty muggle drug habit, saw his father cry in his mother’s arms, tried to make sense of Voldemort’s mad ramblings in his private quarters and watched Luna Lovegood sing herself to sleep in their dungeons for weeks.

He considered mentioning his newfound abilities to Snape, thinking perhaps that this was a skill subconsciously developed due to his vigorous Legilimency training, but quickly thought better of it. His night time ventures in the Forbidden section of the Hogwarts library and among the ancient, dark tomes of Malfoy manor shed no light on his particular new talent and Draco knew that this was a secret best kept by as few people as possible. Even if he trusted Snape completely.

When the war was finally ended by Potter and his rag-tag Order, Draco thought that surely, his mind could rest more easily and stop wandering away from his body at night. This was partially true, he found he could now control the frequency of his night time wanderings, slip back into his body and wake immediately if he wanted, but the happenings continued every night, unabated.

While awaiting his sentencing by the Wizengamot, house arrest afforded him ample opportunity to hone this ability. His afternoon naps in the southern solarium became routine. During these naps, he learned to touch the consciousness of others while they slept. It was how he learned that Wendell Thornshrift, newly appointed Chief Warlock, harboured sympathy for him after the Golden Trio testified about the role of the Malfoy family during the war. Potter especially, it seemed, was desperate to uphold his role of noble martyr to the bitter end.

He spent the next few years visiting the dreams of friends and family. It started from boredom and, if he was honest with himself, mischief. He especially enjoyed inserting himself into whatever whimsical fantasy Pansy fashioned herself in her unguarded moments and wreaking a small bit of havoc. To this day, he didn’t think Pansy knew why she developed a sudden bout of anxiety whenever she wore the colour purple.

Every now and then, much more frequently than he would ever admit, he would visit the dreams of the Golden Trio. His visits to the Weasley third of the Trio stopped within a month of them starting. The idiot had simultaneously the filthiest and dullest mind imaginable…if his dreams didn’t revolve around food or Quidditch then it was often preoccupied with the most lurid of fantasies. Draco never wanted to see a riding crop again in his life.

Potter’s dreams were often plagued with events of the war. It was oddly fascinating for Draco to see things from the other side and he found himself frequently shamed by the experiences Potter relived. He stopped visiting Potter altogether one night after being shown a ghostly King’s Cross where Dumbledore had eerily stared straight at where Draco stood while Potter rambled and paced about endlessly.

He was the least curious about Granger. He figured that her dreams had to reflect his least complimentary assumptions of her, in that she was a book hugging, frizzy haired, soon to be successor to Madame Pince, type of shrew. His few visits to her confirmed much of this though he was still somewhat interested in experiencing the muggle world through her eyes; who knew muggles tormented themselves with metal mouth cages to straighten their teeth? He hadn’t visited her in some time in fact, not since she joined _Panacea Potions_ , subsidiary to Malfoy Industries, as a junior Potions researcher under Finikus Frew – Head of the Magical Maladies research division.

He’d seen her around the lab only a handful of times. At each encounter, she looked thin, tired and overwhelmed by the mass of what she called hair. Her robes were usually shapeless and drab and made her already pale complexion look positively ashen. Draco had looked up her contracted salary after he first saw her in the building lobby to ensure she had not nobly signed herself into virtual serfdom.

That night, his visit to her had been as mundane as expected. They’d visited with a middle aged British couple living in Australia whom Draco presumed were her parents. He honestly couldn’t fathom how those two vague but cheery muggles produced someone as undoubtedly sharp as Granger. And they kept calling her Jean.

Then one fortuitous afternoon, as he stepped out of Flourish and Blotts at the bustling north end of Diagon Alley, he spotted the object of his infrequent musings, one shrew-like Hermione Granger and the female Weasley, now Potter. They seemed to be playing a game of not so fun tug-of-war before Granger’s shoulders seemed to slump in surrender and allowed herself to be dragged through a hideously pink door, into the building beyond.

_Puddifoot’s Diagon Dreams_ the sign swinging above the door announced boldly.

One vivid recollection from his wanderings into Millicent Bulstrode’s dreams taught Draco exactly what this place was and he felt a sinister smirk pull at the corner of his lips. Well, hadn’t things suddenly gotten very interesting.

Draco broke into a sprint in the opposite direction, alarming several passer-bys who recognised the tell-tale Malfoy blond and had never seen a member of that particular haughty family with a hair out of place let alone run. He reached the apparition point near _The Leaky Cauldron_ and disappeared with a crack, reappearing in his flat on the outskirts of Wizarding London.

He threw down his purchases, knowing Poppy, his house elf, would see that the books reached their proper places on his shelves by the evening. He struggled out of his outer robes, leaving them hanging on the banister as he passed, as he took the stairs, two at a time, to reach his bedroom.

Landing on the edge of the bed, Draco shucked his shoes and swung his legs under the covers of his neatly made bed. Undoubtedly he would later face the wrath of his surprisingly temperamental elf for dirtying his linens with his outer clothes.

Allowing his eyes to slip closed, Draco slowed his heart beat with years of practice and mediated his breath into a slow, deep rhythm, counting the seconds and delving into the darkness behind his eyelids. When he felt the familiar pull, he followed it’s call and opened his eyes. His body…but not, rose from the bed and stared down at the corporal form of Draco Malfoy, still lying peacefully beneath his covers. It was a strangely familiar sight though it sent a shiver of alarm through him every time.

Turning away, it took him only a thought to reappear back into Diagon Alley. It bustled with the mid afternoon crowd, feverish with children on their winter break from Hogwarts and inundated with noise. People didn’t seem to see him but never walked near him either and the crowd seemed to subconsciously part as he set a brisk pace towards _Puddifoot’s Diagon Dreams._

Draco walked through the broad windowed shopfront, through the blackout curtains and paused in the sparsely decorated reception room. He absentmindedly noted Anthony Goldstein skulking near the reception desk and tucked that little nugget away for later thought. From Bulstrode’s dreams, Draco spotted the door to the reading room and then the door to the lounging room beyond. He considered briefly stopping in the aisles to peruse some of the more amusing titles but decided against it. He didn’t want to miss a single moment of what was about to transpire. He needed to find Granger before the dream fully set in if he wanted to influence it.

She wasn’t hard to spot even in the semi-dark. Hermione Granger, at her most vulnerable, head lolling to one side and hands lax at her side, no wand in sight. Draco felt a flash of guilt, albeit brief, before he settled himself by her side. He just wanted a glance into her dreams after all, he wouldn’t do anything untoward, he was still a gentleman despite it all. Besides, he could consider it employee research. He needed to know that they were truly employing the best and brightest.

Mind made up, he touched his consciousness to hers and allowed the magic to pull him into her. The feeling was akin to being swept along the current of a river, the coolness of tangible power guiding him until he reached a swirl of colour and stopped abruptly, the magic releasing him into an alternate conscious. After a moment, his vision cleared and he took in his surroundings.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this just quaint?” Was this what Granger thought the upper offices of Panacea Potions looked like? The colour scheme was unmistakable for the décor which adorned many of the lower levels, it made logical sense that Granger’s mind carried this over into a place she had never seen before.

“Can I help you?” A man Draco hadn’t noted previously stood from behind his desk.

“Oh my, my. Is this what passes for tall, dark and handsome in novels these days?” Draco sauntered up to what appeared to be the male protagonist of Hermione Granger’s fantasies and flicked a dismissive glance over the too perfectly ruffled brown hair, the just-there five o’clock shadow and the completely clichéd button up Oxford shirt which currently was only partially buttoned.

“Who are you and why are you in my office?” The brown haired character stepped out from behind the desk, advancing towards Draco. “Identify yourself or I will have security escort you out.”

Draco met him toe to toe, pettily enjoying being just a shade taller than this fantasy man. “Why, I’m Draco Malfoy, I own this company, these premises, and I believe you are in _my_ office.”

This seemed to fluster the other man, doubtless thrown off his subpar romance novel script by the appearance of an unscripted turn of events. Draco stared until the ruffled man stepped back. “Well? What are you meant to be doing?”

“Doing?” Tall, dark and handsome shook his head. “I…I have a disciplinary meeting with my employee…she…” He rallied. “She has exceeded the budget for her project and as CEO, it is my duty to ensure that she is appropriately chastised.”

Draco snorted. What terrifying drivel this was. Sounded like a workplace sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen. He never thought Granger enjoyed this nonsense but to each her own. “Listen here you lazy sod, this,” he waved his fingers in the general direction of the fantasy man, “is not how things really run. Why don’t you toddle along and let me handle this?”

“I beg your pardon –”

The click of the door unlatching launched Draco into motion. He leapt across the carpeted floor, pushing Mr tall, dark and confused with a hard shove to the shoulder. His form disintegrated instantly in a swirl of smoke.

Hermione Granger strode into the room as Draco arranged himself, seated at the edge of his pseudo desk. He perused her dream form and fought the urge to roll his eyes. The book had dressed her like a high class trollop instead of her usual robes and while Draco was not averse to a high class trollop every other weekend, he found it quite disturbing on her.

“Hello, Granger.” He smirked. “Come in. Close the door.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to Hermione's POV. That's probably where we'll remain for the forseeable future.

Hermione couldn’t muster the courage to step forward.

Something wasn’t right. Why would her fantasies show her the face of a man whom she hadn’t spoken a word to since school?

Sure, she worked for a company his father owned and every now and then she saw him passing through the lobby of the building on his way to his own office but she never once greeted him or even met his gaze.

And he was dressed so…neatly.

Hermione thought this was meant to be some sort of sordid sexual fantasy; surely her imagination could conjure something more appealing than the formal outer robes she typically saw on wizarding men.

She waited, looking to him for answer, for Draco bloody Malfoy, to make some sort of move.

He didn’t.

Hermione continued to stare. Months of hiding in the forbidden forest had taught her the value and ease to be found in silence and she certainly wasn’t about to make the first move. There was no conceivable situation in which Hermione Granger would make the first advance towards Draco Malfoy, even if this was just a fictional version of his ferrety self.

He made an impatient noise, exhaling loudly. “Well, Granger?” He gestured to himself, giving his chest a firm pat. “Do what you came here for.”

What she came here for? She most certainly was not here for any such thing. She’d humoured Ginny in agreeing to this ludicrous adventure but it was fine by her if all this fantasy involved was a whole fat load of nothing. She could slip out of this dream with her sense of self perfectly intact instead of shagging some fantasy man silly like Ginny wanted her to.

Instead of accepting his invitation, Hermione surveyed the office. It was rather blandly furnished, the desk on which he was leaning, a few chairs, two couches, a coffee table and a plastic looking pot plant. Plenty of flat surfaces she noted with derision, not enough substance to float an imagination.

She chose to take a seat on the couch, slipping off the ridiculously pink stilettos which were apparently mandatory uniform in someone’s fantasy of office life. May as well wait out this nightmare comfortably.

“Granger, for Merlin’s sake, how could you be this boring even in your dreams?” He flopped down opposite her in the most inelegant manner, crushing what was undoubtedly expensive fabric beneath him.

Hermione’s eyes flashed up. “What did you say to me?” What an odd thing for a fantasy to say. Surely there was a script or guideline to this, surely the women who came to this establishment weren’t expected to make their own ways through these damned stories? “Do you –”

The blond bolted upright. “Err…I mean…that is to say…Granger, surely you would like us to spend our time more productively?” His raised a brow. Hermione supposed that was meant to be seductive in some way.

“No. I am perfectly happy to while away our allotted time sitting here in amicable silence.”

His jaw dropped rather unattractively. “Really? Don’t you want to…uh…do anything…to me?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. She honestly had no idea what constituted a proper seduction but this fictional Draco Malfoy was surely doing a shit job of it. She straightened the hem of her ridiculously short dress. “We could discuss the recent political upheaval in Irish politics or perhaps you would prefer we discuss the controversial election of Dorothea Tunstein as MACUSA president?”

“Not particularly interested in either topic, I’m afraid.” His lips pressed into a firm, thin line.

Hermione thought he was starting to look quite vexed. Interesting. “The weather perhaps? Always a safe topic for –”

“Not that either.” Malfoy sprang to his feet. He straightened his robe fussily and pointed a finger at her. “You’ve exceeded your budget! For your current project!”

This was surely starting to get ridiculous. Hermione was a stickler for the numbers and had never exceeded her guidelines by a single sickle. She supposed this was the script for this type of thing. “No, Mr Malfoy, I have not. Perhaps you should recheck your figures.”

He huffed, pulling at his collar. “You have Miss Granger and as CEO of this firm, it is my duty to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Since it never happened in the first place, there is no need to ensure that. And you’re not CEO, your father is.” She inspected her nails nonchalantly.

Silence reined for a long stretched moment, tempting Hermione to glance up from the hand in her lap. Fantasy Draco Malfoy was starting to look a bit piqued and she could clearly see a pink flush of anger starting to rise in his cheeks; it positively made his features…well…pointy.

“I should punish you for that.” He finally managed, seeming to swallow whatever he had planned to say before.

Hermione burst into incredulous laughter. “What? That’s – that’s your opening line? Please, Malfoy, this isn’t the 1980s, even romance novels have taken a step forward since those lines were popular with the masses. Could you possibly try a little harder?”

“Fine!” He spun away, robes catch the edge of some parchments on the coffee table, spilling them to the floor. “You do whatever you want then, I’m leaving.”

Never one to tolerate a mess, Hermione picked up what seem to be empty sheets of parchment masquerading as paperwork, dog-earring an edge while she contemplated her next move.

Draco Malfoy as a man held very little interest for her. She reasonably knew she had never and was unlikely to ever realistically consider him a sexual partner. Apart from Ron, the men she fancied always tended towards the academic bent, often older, mature and sensible. Her sole connection to Malfoy was a contentious schooling history and the ugliness of the war that followed. In that she supposed, they mutually suffered.

“I want to ask you a question before you go.” Merlin knew if fantasy Malfoy could even answer it.

“Does it have anything to do with me taking off my shirt?”

Hermione felt a smile tug the edge of her lips. “No. Fortunately for both of us, it does not.” She eyed him curiously, tilting her head to the side to study his petulant profile. “That night, on the floor of your parlour, would you have stopped her? If you knew you could do it, would you have stopped Bellatrix from giving me this?”

They both stared down at her left arm. The dream blurred the sharp anger of the scar, but it clearly remained, cursed forever not to fade. Her brand from the war, her own little mark of darkness.

It seemed like forever before he answered. “No.” He sounded hoarse, hesitant but clear. “Even if I succeeded with her, there would’ve been consequences for my family. We Malfoys protect our own.”

Hermione had expected nothing else though the reality of his pragmatic answer left her feeling oddly hollow. “Alright then.”

His expression was wan as he rubbed a hand down his face. “It’s not alright.” He rebuffed her platitude. “I fucking know it wasn’t so don’t go trying to forgive me with that holier than thou Gryffindor attitude.”

“I never said I would forgive you.”

“You testified at my trial.” He snapped back. “You were tortured on my living room floor and your decided to play the martyr and tell the Wizengamot that I didn’t deserve to be punished for it. If that’s not forgiveness, then what is it?”

He suddenly looked very much like the angry, lost boy of that very night, she thought, resentment and fear, a toxic mix in his expression. He had turned back to face her but his posture was defensive and mutinous, like he wanted simultaneously to descend on her and flee.

“That’s called compassion, Malfoy, for a 17 year old boy who was scared for his life and felt he had no alternative option but to protect himself and his family. We were both child soldiers thrown into the worst of circumstances and trying to get what we could out of it.”

Hermione set down the now fray-edged parchments in her hand and stood to face her once childhood bully. “I hate what was done during that war. I’m still angry when I look at you. Some nights I still wake up screaming. Something inside me just refuses to heal but I don’t hate you, Draco Malfoy. I usually don’t think of you at all.”

He stared back silently, harsh creases appearing around his lips. He stayed silent for a long moment, contemplating her expression.

“Me too.” He finally gritted out between clenched teeth.

She waited for him to continue.

“The nightmares.” The fist at his side, clenched and unclenched. “Sometimes, when I pass the grand dining room, at the manor, I can still see _Him_ sitting there, holding court, some mutilated body on the table and Nagini…”

Hermione almost retched at the image he painted for her. She watched his expression flash from angry to disgusted to weary. His fist clenched in his robes again.

“There were a few months there, after the war, that I wanted to burn that whole place to the ground.” He smiled to himself bitterly. “Father really wouldn’t stand for that though, what with centuries of Malfoy history in those walls.”

They were silent for a while, both standing in the tense mood of the room, neither meeting the other’s eye, neither moving or breaking the moment. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if instead of sexual release, this book wanted to give her a cathartic release instead. She wondered if the real Draco Malfoy had those nightmares too…if the magic of the book could simulate what he was thinking or if it was simply what Hermione’s subconscious wanted to hear.

She stared at his tall, hunched figure opposite her, turned to the side and brooding. “You…you could see a counsellor. For the dreams, I mean.”

He straightened to face her, an eyebrow arched. “What is that? Some muggle dream catcher?”

Hermione was instantly indignant at his tone. “No. It’s someone to talk to, who specialises in psychological treatment, to work through the nightmares and help you cope with the trauma of the war.”

He waved her off. “Thanks but no thanks, Granger. I don’t need some muggle’s shoulder to blubber on. I’ll leave that to you Gryffindor lot.”

“What’s your fine idea of mental health care then?”

Malfoy smirked, looking more like what Hermione imagined he would in real life. “Sex.” He said bluntly. “And on the nights when that’s not available, Dreamless sleep potion.”

She scoffed and plopped herself back on the couch behind her. Figures. “Could you be any more cliché? Merlin, no wonder these books are a dime a dozen in the thrift shops.”

“Uh, uh, uh.” He wagged a finger at her as he rounded the coffee table between them and much to Hermione’s discomfort, seated himself right next to her. “Don’t knock it till you try it, Granger. Any wizard worth his salt in bed could give you a good…” She scowled darkly. “…night’s sleep.” He finished with a wink.

Hermione took in the more relaxed posture, the arm slung around the back of the couch they were seated on, his fingers almost close enough to her arm to brush her hideous robes. Somehow, this intimate topic made their conversation so much less intimate than them discussing the war. He was a puzzling dichotomy of anger and frivolity.

“I could show you, if you like.” His fingers mimicked walking towards her arm on the back of the couch.

He was back on script and that was her cue to leave. “Thanks but no thanks. I think I’ll leave you to it. Other engagements to attend, I’m afraid.” Hermione grimaced, remembering the second book she still had to make it through. Damn Ginny Potter.

The Draco Malfoy before her pouted comically, his expression remarkably resembling James Potter in all his 3 year old glory. “Your loss, Granger.”

Hermione hummed absently as she moved back towards the door she had first come through. “Yes, indeed, completely my loss. Thanks for the conversation though.”

He was standing, watching her retreat. He said nothing more as she looked back to make sure he wasn’t following and stepped through the doorway once more.

The floor abruptly gave out beneath her leading foot and Hermione gave a sharp shriek as she plunged, face first, into the freezing dark. She hit a rough hard surface only a moment later, a grunt of air escaping her as the impact winded her abruptly. Sharp pain shot through her left shoulder as she levelled herself onto both hands.

“Damn it. Merlin, where am I now?” She scoured her environment as best she could in the dim light. She noted the smell of decaying underbrush and the towering tree canopy far above her. Through a gap in the foliage, the luminescence of a full moon hit her.

Hermione realised instantly with dread what sort of fantasy this was. She’d seen titles like this often enough in the romance section of Flourish and Blotts.

An eerie howl tore through the air as if to punctuate her thoughts.

She bit back a frustrated groan. She really was going to kill Ginny, possibly also Angelina, for this. She was not…

Underbrush cracked to her left and Hermione scrambled to her feet. Reaching for her wand, her hand met…nothing but a thin layer of silk. In growing alarm, she risked a glance down and nearly groaned at her attire. Gone were the frilly robes, instead she wore what seemed to be a tattered white silk nightgown; there were no pockets, no where to stash any form of weapon.

Harsh breathing echoed through the frigid night air as Hermione’s glance snapped back up. A glowing pair of yellow eyes looked at her from the shadows of the forest.

“Mate.” A harsh voice, barely human, growled through the still air.

Instinct kicked in instantly; legs pumping underneath her, Hermione darted for the tree-line, ignoring the infuriated growl ripping the air behind her. Something brushed the air next to her right ankle, missing her by an inch as she zigzagged through the twisting path, leaping over upraised tree roots.

A hot breath puffed across the nape of neck an instant before a heavy weight collided with her back, toppling and winding her as she landed on the hard earth beneath them.

Despite this, she managed to twist herself onto her back, planting her elbows in the dirt before she slammed up her right knee.

A sharp whimper rang in her ears just as Hermione slammed her head forward, a headache instantly erupting behind her eyes even as she heard the satisfying crunch of a breaking nose in her opponent.

Puffing with adrenaline, she pushed the slumped body above her to the side and crawled away from the groaning creature. He was clutching his face with one hand and his crotch with the other.

“Serves you right, Malfoy.” She spat before her vision cleared and the world stopped tilting about her. “Malfoy…?”

The creature on the floor of the forest was dark haired. Even with blood and his hand obscuring his features in the limited light of the forest, Hermione could see it wasn’t the man in the previous room.

“Who in the name of Merlin are you?”

A sharp tug at her navel occurred an instant before Hermione’s vision faded and her body began to slump.

The world blurred and spun when she opened her eyes. Her mouth was bone dry with the residual taste of potion still lingering in the back of her throat. She tried to lick her lips as a gentle hand smoothed across her forehead and brushed back sweaty curls.

“There now.” An unfamiliar voice whispered next to her. “Returning can be a bit of shock for the system. Give your eyes a moment to adjust.”

A cool glass met her lips and Hermione took a grateful sip of water. Her vision slowly focused back, the woman before her becoming clearer, even in the dim light.

“Welcome back to Puddifoot’s Diagon Dreams, Miss Granger.” Bertha smiled brightly. “We trust you had a pleasant journey.”

Hermione could’ve honestly slapped that smile right off that woman’s face right now if she trusted her coordination. As it was, she felt like any sudden movements might pitch her straight off the edge of the chaise.

“You’ve woken a tad bit earlier than your companion.” Hermione darted a disgruntled glance at Ginny in the cubical opposite. “Allow me to guide you to the recovery room.”

Hermione grumbled but allowed her guide to place a steadying hand beneath her elbow while she stood unsteadily. She took a few small, experimental steps before leaving the cubical heading in the direction of another door at the far end of the room. Just before her, another woman was being lead by her own guide. She seemed to be walking much more unsteadily than Hermione was, leaning heavily on the woman at her side, her knees seemed to give way more than once.

She followed as they were lead into another room, this one much more brightly lit and decorated so much like Madame Puddifoot’s Tea shop at Hogsmeade that Hermione wondered if she had been portkeyed there. There was a blinding amount of pink and frills everywhere including the cushioned seat she was deposited at.

Bertha lowered Hermione’s elbow to her side and gestured to the tea set before her.

The cup instantly started to fill with familiar amber liquid and Hermione glanced at it suspiciously.

“Camomile tea. To calm.” A silvery bottle appeared next to her tea cup. “A pain relief potion. For –”

“What?” Hermione snapped upright. “For what?”

Bertha winked at her conspiratorially. “For the aches and pains after your adventure.”

Hermione gaped as the woman started to walk away. She lifted her left arm to stop her and a sharp pain twinged across the shoulder. Hermione’s mind instantly flashed back to the rough impact she had on the forest floor in her dream.

Anxiety settled in her stomach as she glanced around. Several other women were in the so called recovery room. All were staring dreamily at the garish décor as they sipped their tea, none of them paid a shred of attention to any of the other occupants in the room.

She turned back to her table and rubbed her shoulder contemplating the residual effects. She was still trying to puzzle out the potion when Ginny was lowered into the seat opposite her.

The redhead whimpered as Hermione raised her eyes from the teacup.

“I’m positively raw between the legs.”

Hermione dropped her teaspoon. “Ginny…what?”

“That man was honestly a machine.” Ginny snatched up the pain relief potion offered to her and downed it in a single gulp. She eyed Hermione’s still full bottle and downed it too for good measure. “He rubbed me completely raw.”

Hermione winced and cringed backwards. “Merlin, I do not need to hear this about Harry.”

Swallowing a full mouthful of tea, Ginny shook her head. “Not Harry. The wizard in the book. Merlin, he was hung like a –”

Hermione shot back in her chair. “No. No Ginny Potter. Do not even think of finishing that sentence.”

Ginny smiled slyly. “Fine. I won’t. You’ve got the idea anyway. Why don’t you tell me about your dream?”

“Nothing to tell.” Hermione stared resolutely into her teacup, suddenly feeling hot beneath her robes. “Wait,” she glanced sharply at the woman sitting opposite. “It wasn’t Harry?”

“Of course not.” Ginny glanced at her with a satisfied smile. “That’s the whole point of these books isn’t it?”

“But…”

“It’s no different to those magazines Harry hides under the loose floorboard in the cupboard.” The younger woman held a finger to her lips. “He thinks I don’t know but really, I had a lot of older brothers.”

Hermione stared bewildered. “I... I don’t know.”

“Think of it this way. While I’m here, spending my afternoon with an unrealistically well endowed man in a book, Harry is spending his afternoon with an equally unrealistically well endowed woman in a magazine.”

“Alright. Ick…” Pushing away her tea, Hermione suppressed the mental image which threatened to rise in her mind. “Let’s never discuss this again.” She rose from the table.

Ginny pouted and winced as she stood too. “Merlin, I’m going to walking bow legged for the next few hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress and a bit of Hermione being too smart for Draco's mental health.


End file.
